“I can’t help it if you had a shitty plan. You have to think and act without being blinded by your emotions. Besides, your dad was a real asshole and should have been dealt with years ago.”
“I loved my dad,” she snaps back but I doubt her.
“You loved your dad because he’s the only dad you had and your only male role model. I won’t get into the psychology of it but even you can’t deny he was a twisted piece of shit.”
Frankly, I worry about her stability, but I can understand being without your family and without a home and having to fend for yourself without the proper skills.
She has great potential to do many jobs, she just doesn’t know how to apply herself to go about it the correct way is my assumption.
“Can I get some different clothing to wear? I’m starting to stick, and the air in here stinks like moss.” She’s still in the same clothes from last night but I need to keep her uncomfortable.
“Hmm, well, your actions put you in this predicament, but I might have a solution.”
“What do you mean?”
Was that an inkling of hope in her voice? Maybe she really doesn’t want to die.
“I can use more staff and think you’d be a great addition to my personal detail. You’ll have to be watched, I’ll never be alone with you, you won’t have weapons . . . but you don’t need them,” I add.
“Is that coffee?”
Seems I might understand this little minx better than anyone else. But the question begging to be answered is, can I trust her?
“Yes, I’ll give it to you. Then the three of us are going for a short walk. You look a bit green. I think you need some fresh air.”
9
Francesca
Ihave to pee. I’ve been holding it for what feels like days, but my mind knows it’s only been hours. However, the need has reached critical mass. Matteo unties my ankles but leaves both arms tied behind my back. This is gonna be tricky.
Matteo looks increasingly uncomfortable as he helps me to the toilet, pulls my panties down and lifts my dress above my waist. This is humiliating but preferable to peeing the bed and smelling of urine when Sal returns. I doubt they have many female hostages from the perplexed looked on my guard’s face.
My strong glutes and quads hold me up as I squat over a toilet that looks like it hasn’t been flushed since Mussolini was in power. Good thing I’m in great shape. When I’m finished, Matteo averts his eyes and pulls up my undies before helping me back to the bed where he re-ties my ankles and anchors my wrists.
He’s been switching out the restraints to give me some semblance of comfort. Now it’s time for him to free one hand and I use it to readjust my clothes. I’m not accustomed to someone else dressing me, especially some mouth breather Sal uses for babysitting and to possibly dig my grave.
“Can you just let me go? I can make it worth your while. I have an expensive car I can give you if you let me escape,” I implore Matteo, who has resumed his post and picked up his AK-47.
He says nothing, smart move.
How did I get myself in this mess and how am I getting myself out alive?
I could fake a panic attack. It’s doable. A heart attack, too difficult to pull off when I can’t grab my chest. But even if I got out of this shit hole, Matteo could easily outrun me.
How is it I end up with the one guard who isn’t a snowflake Millennial with a poor work ethic and an unwavering need for caffeine and fattening snacks? Or a video game addiction?
It’s been hours but I assume Sal’s coming back. I know he will have more questions for me, not that I intend to answer any of them. He must be busy checking with his boss and maybe they are discussing if I live or die.
Dante is the don and makes those decisions, but I hope he’ll be forgiving since I wasn’t trying to killhim. Mafia rules are not written down anywhere, but they don’t need to be. Everyone knows the rules and follows the rules. If I’m allowed to live, I will have to pay a price, of that I am certain.
I’m tired of laying on this filthy mattress thinking up of all the things that Sal might do to me. I should be worried about being sent to my family in a duffle bag or being found floating face down in a river. Instead, I find myself fantasizing about the texture of Sal’s chest hair and how hard he wants me to pull it.
I blame my erotic daydreaming on boredom and frustration. With my hands and feet bound I can’t fight my way out of this situation.
If my dad were still alive, I’m sure the Michelis would torture me for information about his operation. Would Dad have saved me? Or just his sons? Or not give a shit?
Women, especially those dependent on men for financial survival, are viewed as immaterial and exploited all the time. The spoils of war. Why should they view me any differently?